


The Arrival

by spikesgirl58



Series: ABBA/Foothills [83]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E.
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-04
Updated: 2014-07-04
Packaged: 2018-02-07 11:19:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1897080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spikesgirl58/pseuds/spikesgirl58
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Even things started with the best of intentions eventually end up okay.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Arrival

**Author's Note:**

  * For [svetlanacat4](https://archiveofourown.org/users/svetlanacat4/gifts).



"Hey, boss.”

Illya looked up from the tray of steaks he was trimming as Rand wandered into the kitchen.  He was tying on his apron and looking around as if seeing the kitchen for the first time.  In the mornings the kitchen was so clean and quiet.  It was a bit like a sleeping baby – perfect until it woke up and then within minutes it would be a free-for-all when dinner service arrived.

“Good morning, Rand.  How are you?”  He tossed a narrow strip of fat into the small metal bin beside him.

“Had to take Luke to the vet.”

Illya didn’t remember which of Rand’s many dogs Luke was, but those animals were Rand’s life.  “I’m sorry to hear that.  He’s alright?”

“He got into a fight with a bramble bush and got a couple of thorns in his paws.  It’s happened before, but I didn’t have the patience or skill to cut them out.” 

“You lack knife skills?”

“When it comes to my guys, yeah, I do.” Rand dropped his knife bag on the counter and pulled out a boning knife and a steel.  He proceeded to run the knife along the steel, not to sharpen it, but to hone the edge and realign the blade’s edge.  “What’s first on the hit parade?”

Illya waved to various pots.  “I’ve got the beef and chicken stocks started.  If you want to start work on the vegetable stock, it is next.”

“You’ve already…” Rand looked at his watch.  “I’m not late, that means—“

“I’m early.  It was safer.”

“What’s going on?”

“Wine Connoisseur announces its awards today and Napoleon was making me a nervous wreck.”

“Why?”

“He’s hoping that we place well on the ten best wine lists.”

“We already have five stars.  There’s something better than that?”  Rand began a rough chop on a pile of carrots.  He didn’t bother to scrape them or even cut the tops off.  Everything went into a large stockpot.

Illya glanced down at the small tattoo, a ring of five stars, on his arm.  “In our world, no.  In his, this would be the equivalent.  He is anxious for our local vintners to be recognized and it wouldn’t hurt our business, either.”

“But there are also Napa and French labels on our list.”  He dumped the carrots into a pot and started on the celery.

Illya smirked.  “That’s called hedging our bets, my friend.”  The steaks, now trimmed, were seasoned with a rub, which Illya applied liberally to both sides.  “This is very important to him and while I wish to appear supportive…”

“It’s like me and Luke’s thorns.  It’s best to leave it to the experts.”  They worked in quiet for a few more minutes and then Rand ventured.  “Chef, I’ve been meaning to ask you something.  If you don’t want to answer, don’t.”

“I wouldn’t.”  Illya carried the steaks into the walk-in freezer and slid them onto the designated shelf.  He reemerged, wiping his hands on a small towel that hung from his apron.  “What is your question?”

“You work your ass off for this place--”

“We all do.”

“Because you do.  You lead by example.”

“That’s your question?”

“Not yet.  You have won a mess of awards and I’ve seen other chefs display them in their restaurants, yet yours are shoved into a closet.  Why is that?”

A memory flashed in Illya’s mind.  He was standing in full dress, his chest full of medals, his arms holding other awards and he remembered seeing the look that Artyom Vladimirovich, his best friend, had given him, a look of jealousy, envy and distress.  It wasn’t like Illya had purposefully tried to win everything, well, not everything, but he was competitive by nature and he had an edge that most of his fellow sailors didn’t – a thirst for knowledge and a keen eye.  He worked hard to improve and didn’t mind the hard work.  All of that combined to make Illya the apple of his admiral’s eye.

Artyom Vladimirovich preferred a glass of vodka and a song.  He wasn’t career Navy and he most certainly wasn’t going to waste his time or efforts on the military when there was a party to be had.

“Illya Nichovich, you are studying again?  Come with me.  Pavil Michovich just received a package from home.  He’s willing to share. ”

“Our exams are coming up, Artyom Vladimirovich.  You should study.”

“Why?  What good will that do?  I’d rather sleep with Madam Vodka than worry away at a pointless task.” 

It was an argument that Illya would hear again and again from his friend. Illya tried to convince him and his other friends of their folly, but in the end, they would leave him to his studies and stagger back to their cots just before sunrise. 

It wasn’t, however, until that terrible moment that Illya realized such things as awards and honors weren’t always the best way to win the admiration and affection from others.  He thought the others would be happy for his success and would see what hard work could do.  He had won just about every commendation and award the Russian Navy offered as well as a commission.

It had just the opposite effect.  From that time on Illya was shunned and it was really that sense of isolation that spurred him on to petition to be allowed to join UNCLE.   It was, of course, the best decision he ever made, but he still felt that first moment of his friends’ anger keenly.  The isolation, the hatred, the no longer being part of something larger, it still hurt.

Years later, nostalgia had prompted Illya to attempt to contact Artyom Vladimirovich, only to be told that he’d died of alcohol poisoning.  It was a sad end to a friend, like so many of his countrymen, who never accepted that there was more to life than just getting by to the next drink.

“You okay, Chef?  You’re all flushed.”

Rand’s voice brought him back to the present.   Artyom Vladimirovich’s face vanished, replaced by the more familiar one of his sous chef. 

“I’m… I am fine, Rand.  I was just thinking of something else.”

“I could tell.”

“I entered all those contests simply to bankroll Taste.  There were other chefs more passionate and who probably should have won, but I had to be ruthless.”  Again, he’d tasted anger and betrayal tossed at him, but now he was an old hand at dealing with the emotions.  At that point in his life, all he had was his restaurant and he was not going to let anything take it away from him.  “We needed the money, if nothing more than just to make payroll.  I am not proud of what I did.”  He paused and gave his sous chef a smile.  “However, I am proud of what I accomplished with it.  I prefer to see Taste as my prize, not those awards.”

“That’s why you are always so generous and supportive now of upcoming chefs?”

“Yes.  It is my attempt to make amends.”

“Hey, guys, what’s happening?”  Henry joined them and Matt was hot on his heels.  Within minutes, they were cutting, chopping, and laughing together as friends and colleagues.

The doors of the kitchen burst open and Napoleon was standing there, a huge grin on his face.  He was waving a magazine.

“Something tells me he did okay,” Rand murmured to Illya, who nodded.  A second later they were all in a joyous group hug as Napoleon trumpeted his success, their success, to them.

Illya was lucky, but he’d worked hard for his luck.  Ostracized before Illya had sworn he wouldn’t let it happen again and he hadn’t.  He’d sacrificed, and struggled, but in the end he’d gained friendship, respect and love.  That meant more to him than any award he might be given. Now he had his friends, a successful business and, most important, the love of a good man.   Napoleon, as it turned out, was his true reward and Illya couldn’t be happier.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
